


Penitence

by fencer_x



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 15:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: Weeks after Regionals, Rin invites himself over to Haruka's home for a long-overdue apology. [spoilers for Season 1, Episode 12]





	Penitence

He catches you red-handed when he pads back into the sitting room, tea tray with two steaming cups atop it balanced daintily in one hand with a pet bottle of water to share between you in the other. You freeze, your traitorous fingers trembling where you've brushed the pad of one over his profile in fading chromatics on a glossy scrap of paper, stark contrast to your own bright, broad grin with your arm looped around his neck to tug him close.

He pauses for a moment in the doorway, gaze following your fingers, the tiniest narrowing of his eyes the only indication he feels anything about you, being here, touching _that_ , but he says nothing, only sighs softly and continues across the threshold, settling down onto his knees and placing the tray at the center of the table, the water bottle coming to rest on the tatami matting beneath your feet. He sets the cup nearest you on a coaster and pushes it closer before taking his own in both hands and blowing lightly across the steaming surface.

"…Still a romantic, huh."

You can feel that familiar twinge of irritation, but it is with great relief, now, that you realize that's all it is: the same irritation you always feel around him, the irritation you can't explain, that is just _there_ , because somehow Haru always manages to get under your skin more easily, in new and different ways, than anyone else. There's no longer that frustration, that desperation of reaching and grasping and groping for something you can't even name let alone expect to catch, something that _he has_ and _you don't_. He's shown you what it is—held your hand and taught you what it was you'd been missing, because he'd only just realized himself, so you're learning this new routine together. It's not bad. You could get used to it. You're already starting to think _fondly_ of the irritation he generates within you, after all. 

You snort derisively, reflex rather than honest reaction, and your fingers fall away as you toss him a sly glance. "Takes one to know one."

He says nothing, just calmly sips his tea, but you don't miss the way his lips curl up around the edge of the cup, and inside you think _I win_.

You twist on the ball of your foot, snatching up the little trophy from the shelf it sits upon, and stomp over to the low table he's relaxing beside, flopping down inelegantly and ignoring the tea he's poured for you. You frown to yourself in thought as you turn the weight over in your hands; the trophy topper has an indentation on its crown, like a chip is missing, and you run a finger over it to feel the pitting, noting a portion with gold paint a slightly different shade from the rest.

In your mind's eye, you see yourself sneering, tossing the trophy with one hand, before chucking it over your shoulder and listening to it clang satisfyingly against cracking tile, Makoto's and Nagisa's disappointed cries echoing off of decaying, crumbling walls.

Your frown goes pained for a moment, until Haru interrupts your dark memories with, "It's gonna get cold; drink while it's still warm."

You snap your head up, blinking dumbly, but he just stares at you, fixing you with a gaze you can only tolerate for so long before ducking your head in apology and gently setting the trophy to the side in favor of the teacup. Several long moments of silence pass between you, and you realize belatedly that…you don't really know why you're here.

You had invited yourself over after crashing Iwatobi's weekend practice session—the Captain's off visiting relatives for Obon, so you don't feel obligated to stay on campus and practice for _next_ year's tournaments so soon after your dismal display at Regionals—mostly under the assumption that the others would tag along, but Nagisa and Rei had slipped away as soon as Gou had called an end to the thorough thrashing you'd given them both (likely to lick each other's wounds; Nagisa's Grasshopper is little improved, and Rei has yet to take you up on the offer of serious lessons, so his Butterfly is still abysmal), and Makoto had professed babysitting duties while his parents took an evening for themselves.

You'd half expected Haru to suggest joining in—he and Makoto have always been joined at the hip, after all—but when you had tested him with a teasing, "Guess it's just the two of us then, Mackerel Boy," he'd just grunted in agreement and padded off for the changing rooms without so much as a backward glance.

You'd initially thought that his cold attitude had been product of the harsh terms on which you'd parted years ago; now you realize it's just pure, unadulterated Haru.

So you're here now, in his sitting room, drinking his tea and getting dirty fingerprints all over the trophy that you'd all but thrown in his face the last time you'd seen it. And you don't know why you're here—only…that you need to be.

You need to be, because you've been staring at this trophy and that picture and this _room_ full of memories you've shared with him, realizing that the only reason any of it is here is because _of you_. He'd wanted to swim with you—wanted it, even when he thought he didn't, even when you _made_ him—and then you did the worst thing possible and jerked it out from underneath him, took away his life raft, the only thing he had to cling to in _yourself_ , and left him struggling, sinking, drowning.

You've stopped pretending to drink, and he doesn't pressure you for more, just reaches over and takes your cup and silently places it back on the tray—and you snap a hand out, lightning-quick, and grip him about the wrist, nearly pulling him across the table and into your lap before you get ahold of yourself. He stares at you, wide-eyed and awkwardly balancing half-on the table, half off, up on his knees and confusion evident in his features.

You gasp softly to yourself, shocked at your actions, and loosen your grip, but he holds his position for a moment, searching your face for an explanation. "…I had it repaired."

"…What?" You have no clue what he's talking about, but what else is new? He slides his gaze off to the side, to the trophy, and you understand. "…Ah. That's…" A nod. "Yeah, good. Sorry 'bout that." And it feels wrong, to just offer a pithy, thoughtless apology like that, no genuine contrition in your voice because it's caked in layers of bravado. You grimace, wishing not for the first time you could bite your tongue and take it back.

He lets it pass, though, without challenge, and slips back down into seiza, staring unseeingly into his empty cup. "…I didn't know what else to do with it. Makoto and Nagisa pushed it on me, after…after." You can almost see the whole thing through his eyes, Makoto insistently pushing it into his hands, Nagisa nodding his approval, soft muttered promises that _I'm sure we can get that chip fixed up easily_.

You want to make a snide comment here, as that's what you've grown used to, or at least fire back something along the lines of _those two never change_ , but you don't feel you've yet earned that right, haven't mended enough fences yet, and while you can still feel that disorienting lightness in your stomach, like seasickness you used to feel on your dad's boat that you tried to ignore because you were having _so much fun_ being out on the waves with him, the high from the relay still coursing through your system over a week later, you're starting to see things without that rosy haze clouding your vision, and it's a cold, dark, lonely bed you've made for yourself.

But Haru doesn't judge you; he just offers you tea and doesn't ask why you're here. If you dawdle another hour, he might even offer you dinner. He'll grill you mackerel, ignore your demands for meat, and never ask you what you want from him, not because he already knows the answer— _swim for me, not because I ask it, but because you want to_ —but because, you suspect, he's worried he'll scare you away again.

You want to laugh at the ludicrous notion; as if you've _ever_ been able to keep yourself away from him—he's always there, clouding your vision, and like your own personal relay, you can't swim without him. You need him—whether it's in the lane next to you, or flying over your head, or even just standing there, at the goal, hard determination in his eyes as he holds out a hand to pull you up poolside. You need the relay, you need a team, you need people who care about you, who _give a shit_ , but more than any of that, you need _him_.

Friends, teammates—they make swimming fun for you.

Haruka makes swimming _possible_ , makes the effort _worth it_.

And you've been _shit_ at showing him how much you appreciate that. 

You shift onto your knees and then up onto unsteady feet again, snatching up the trophy as you rise, and you can feel his curious gaze following you as you shuffle back over to his little shrine in the corner, replacing the trophy next to the photograph. You feel sorry for the kid in the picture; there's so much pain and frustration he's about to have to go through, and you wish you could go back in time and tell him exactly what you needed to hear all those years ago, wish that you hadn't wasted years of your life, years you could have had with _Haru_ , years where swimming wasn't just a painful reminder or a way to try and escape from the disappointing mess you'd made of your life.

"I'm sorry," you repeat, words mumbled over numb lips, and you trace the outline of your own smile in the picture.

"It's fine; it wasn't that difficult to get repaired. Just some putty and a film of gold paint, they said."

You grimace; that's not what you're apologizing for. "That's—not…" you start, then clench your fists at your side, not in anger (at least, not at Haru), but frustration and irritation. You need this to come out _right_ , need to not screw this up. "I'm _sorry_ ," you repeat with conviction, willing him to understand, and when he doesn't respond this time, you snap your head around, feeling a tightness in your throat and a pressure against the back of your eyes that threatens tears—and _fuck_ , how does he always bring this out in you?

"…For what?" he hazards, and while his tone is steady, you can read the worry in his words. He doesn't want to ask it, just like he doesn't want to ask why you're here, but he feels obligated. You always wind up forcing him to do what you want him to, you chuckle darkly to yourself.

"For saying—" You choke on the words and take a deep, labored breath, turning back and locking eyes with your younger self and praying that he'll be strong, that he won't break, that he'll persevere long enough to become _you_ , so that he can finally have everything he's always wanted. "For saying I wouldn't swim with you anymore. Back at Prefecturals." You can almost _feel_ him tense up, as if the reminder in itself is a veiled threat you can hold over him.

You never would, not again. Not when doing so would be like hamstringing yourself. You've learned that lesson. Maybe he understands this, for he nods softly, mostly to himself, and lets his gaze fall. Then there's a long pause—you catch the sound of a sweet potato vendor trawling the streets on the lower levels—and he mutters, "…Would you really have?"

"Huh?"

"Would you have?" he repeats, and glances up to lock eyes with you, willing understanding through your gaze just as you did to him moments before, and you swallow thickly as the meaning comes together.

You shake your head, no further thought necessary. "I couldn't. I tried, but…I couldn't do it." Not in good conscience, you remind yourself. Not after Makoto had given you that verbal dressing down, not after you'd heard secondhand what your ultimatum had done to him. Not after…you'd seen them swim that relay. You couldn't have stayed away even if you'd _wanted_ to then. "…It didn't feel…like I thought it would," you finish pathetically, and while you know it's selfish, at least it's honest. You want to be open and raw for him all the time from now on, no artifice or masks, just pure _you_ , because he's the one that matters. He's the one you can cry in front of and embarrass yourself before and who'll still swim for you, heedless of the sway he holds over you. He could make or break you, and he chooses to _make_.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement—and then he's standing, stepping around the table, and drawing close—the two centimeters of height you have on him feeling like nothing at all. He's in your personal space like he owns it, has you all but backed up against the shelf at your back now, and he's staring into your eyes intently, trying to read you—you're not sure if he manages to do it, but his gaze softens after a beat, and he grabs you by the elbows to hem you in tight (as if you could wrench yourself away even if you'd wanted to) and intones, "…Don't ever say it again." He eyes flicker with something sharp and threatening despite the overt softness of the gaze. "Don't ever say you won't swim with me again."

You're rendered mute, just nodding reflexively, and of a sudden, your tongue springs to life, and before you can stop the traitorous organ, you're vowing, "I won't, I swear. I won't. I'll—I'll swim for you!"

And you know that was the wrong thing to say; you know he hates being _needed_ , being relied upon, having things he doesn't want shoved into his possession, but you can't help it, you _need_ to be wanted, need _him_ to want you, to own up to the sway he holds over you. And blessedly, he nods, accepting your offer, piddling though you know it to be. 

Something seems to relax in him here, like you've just relieved him of an immense burden, and he raises a hand to grab at the shelf to steady himself—except he's not holding himself up, instead he's grabbing the trophy again, fingers white-knuckled at the base, and he shoves it back at you, your hands coming up to accept it reflexively before you realize what he's doing. "Haru, what're you—"

"You…should take it." You don't know how he's come to this conclusion—but then, he doesn't seem to understand either, expression torn as he does so, and you glance down to look at the weight in your hands, trying to see it through his eyes. The ribbon is faded, the gold paint chipped in places—you can barely even make out the writing on the plaque now. You had buried it before—the four of you—because it hadn't seemed right for any one of you to keep it. It still doesn't.

"No…" you start, and before he can insist, you suggest, "Let's bury it again."

He blinks at you, shock evident on his features, like he can't believe he didn't think of it himself. When he manages to find his voice, it's small. "…When will we dig it up, then?"

You cast your gaze aside, focusing on nothing but that bright, white light that's a future too brilliant for you to yet comprehend, a future that, whenever you try to reach out and touch it, winds up just bringing you back to _him_ , like he and your future are intertwined, inseparable. You know if you ever tried to explain this to him, he'd just stare at you blankly and mutter, irritated, _Romantic_. 

You _are_ a romantic, but you're sure this is something different, something more important. Your lip curls into a smile on one side, cocky and confident. "When I medal. After I come back from the Olympics, we'll dig it up. Then we'll bury it with the medal again." You think he might ask _and then when will we dig it up after that?_ but you don't have an answer for him, so you're glad he winds up just nodding silently, a smile of his own playing at his lips. It stirs something inside you that he doesn't question your confidence about medaling, and maybe he can see that future more clearly than you can yourself.

But then you remember something, something that dulls that future, and you're voicing it before you can really arrange your thoughts properly: "…You never told me."

"What?"

"What your dream was. You never said, before." You'd bared your soul as rawly as you could to Haru, tried to make him privy to every dark nook and cranny there was to you, so that you might have nothing left to fear that might drive him away, and even this dream, this future, hadn't turned him off—but you'd never been able to earn the same in return. He's still as much a mystery as ever, and you wonder, bitterly, if perhaps Makoto knows, the way he seems to know everything about Haru.

"Because I'm not…sure what it is, really," he admits after a moment, but he's still smiling softly to himself, like it's some great inside joke. "I'm going to try and find one now, though." You don't hear the unspoken _because it's lonely being the only one without one_ , but you know it's there all the same. For someone who hates being around others, Haru sure can be needy in the strangest ways. 

Your smirk turns into a full-blown grin, you can't help it, and you loop an arm around his neck and pull him close. "Then—until you do, you have to help me make mine come true." Haru just glares at you, the softness gone and replaced by familiar irritation as he tries to shove out of your awkward embrace.

"Why—should I—"

"Because you have a responsibility to me now," you remind ducking down so he has to lock eyes with you and accept that fire you know is kindling just beyond your pupils, the challenge he stokes in you. He used to run from it, or ignore it, but you're not letting him do that anymore. "If I'm going to swim for you—then you have to give it to me."

His struggles grow weak, his fingers resting lightly on your arms but no longer gripping and tugging. "…Give you what?"

" _Drive_ ," you breathe, but you mean a dozen other things; passion, reason, a beginning and end, hope, release, a pedestal to stand on and a sanctuary to return to. No _wonder_ it felt like the relay ruined you, no _wonder_ you came alive again after he brought you back. You hadn't been ready for everything he had to offer then—but you're ready now. You just…need him to _give it_. Freely. 

His fingers tighten on your arms again, but he doesn't shove you away, just closes his eyes and breathes deeply. You don't know how long you spend staring at him like this; long enough, certainly, to count the number of lashes on each eye, thin and delicate against the rise of his cheekbone, or to note how he somehow smells like water—not soap like a bath, not salt like the ocean, just clean and cool and fresh. You want to laugh, because part of you probably always thought he'd smell like _mackerel_ if you ever found yourself this close to him. 

And suddenly you're very, very conscious of how close you are, how your arm is still looped around his neck, like in the photograph, but instead of leaning on him, you've hauled him close, almost touching, and it's no longer necessary, not to get your point across at least, so you relax your grip and swallow thickly, wondering if you should apologize again, or if that will just make things worse—

—except he won't let you go, just tightens his grip on your arm, his free hand sliding up to your shoulder to keep you from twisting away, and his eyes snap open, alert and reflecting that fire of yours you'd tried to fix him with before, to force him to accept. Maybe it caught, after all.

"Fine," he mutters, but it doesn't sound irritated, just distracted, like he's not focused on the words, and his fingers start to climb up your arms, until they've settled at the base of your neck, like he wants to snap it, or pull you closer—and turns out it's the latter, because he brings your face level with his. "But you have to promise me." You can feel the confusion spreading over your features—confusion over so many things, really. "Promise me you'll never quit swimming again." He gives you a little shake, just in case you weren't 120% focused on him right now. "If you're going to swim for me, you're going to _swim_ for me. I won't forgive you if you try to quit again." You think you hear a catch in his voice, but his eyes are still hard and fierce and blazing. Any emotion he has, he's not going to break down like you. The prick. "I don't care…if you say you won't swim with _me_. But never say you won't sw—"

" _Idiot_!" you snap, and this close, you nearly bump noses with him as your temper flares; but you can't be blamed, because he's pissing you off. "Idiot! Don't give me shit like that—lying asshole, you _do_ care if I say that! I _know_ you do." He flushes and finally glances away, embarrassed. Which is bullshit; he doesn't get to keep that cool facade up in front of you while you're standing here baring yourself. "And like hell I could ever say that again!" It hurt enough doing it the first time, and swimming without Haru isn't swimming at all, so how could he ever think you could do such a thing? Quit him without quitting swimming.

You're going all the way, and he's coming with you. Because you need him and he needs you, and together you're the simplest, least complex team unit there is, a pair of powerhouses that fuel one another. You both swim _for the team_. You can't swim any other way. 

"Are you going to cry?" he has the gall to ask.

" _No_ ," you lie, and he calls you on it with a soft, derisive snort, fingers skittering up your neck to press along your jaw, tracing it, memorizing it before he tips your head down and presses in to brush dry lips over your own, pausing and holding in place as long as the both of you can bear it before releasing you with a shallow sigh.

"…What about now?"

Your eyes are hot, your throat tight and clenched, and you can't blink, because then he'll be _right_. " _No_ , asshole," you repeat, voice far too high because the lower registers would break or get crushed in your windpipe as you try not to just _lose it_. If he does that again—if he _kisses you_ again, you're done for. You don't know how you're holding yourself together now, to be honest, but it helps to not be looking at him, just teetering on a dark edge as you try to collect your thoughts.

He is merciless, though, demanding now that you've told him you'll live for him, swim for him, and before you can regret telling him of the power he holds over you, he grabs your chin and tugs you down to look him square on. "No more lies, either." And maybe you should take this opportunity to educate him on all the reasons you cry—that sometimes you cry because the responsibility you've heaped upon yourself is too much, and even the slightest stumble makes the weight you bear feel like far too much to handle, and that other times you cry because you're at an impasse, you can't find a way out, can't see that bright light any more for all the darkness around you, and that at still other times, you cry because you're _too damned full_ and it has to come out, and for some reason, all your emotion leaks out through your eyes. You can't help it. You're a Romantic.

He shifts one hand up, brushing over a high, flushed cheek to wipe away the tears smudging at the corner of one eye—before bringing it back to his mouth and slowly licking the salty residue away, pink tongue darting out and in again. Something _clicks_ inside, at this, and you snap a hand out, gripping him tight by the wrist and relishing the shocked little gasp of surprise he gives. If he thinks you simply wallow in your emotions, he's going to be proven immeasurably mistaken.

You swallow thickly. "…If you don't want me to lie, you'd better be prepared for my truths." There's a difference between baring yourself and hoping he won't turn away—and being given his word that he won't. Some truths are harder to take than others, and you won't have him shrugging you off as a dreamer, a Romantic when you tell him the things you think, the hopes you entertain. If he wants your truths, he'll have them—he deserves no less for all he's been to you—but you won't spring this on him unawares. He's going to see it coming from a mile away. The full force of your everything.

Your grip loosens, and he slides his wrist out—and down, to press your palms together, warmth sparking at the contact, before his fingers find the spaces between your own and bend to grip and hold you in place. "Why are you here, Rin?"

Bastard. You _tsk_ softly in irritation, but he just squeezes harder. He demands no more lies—and then asks for the one truth you want to keep hidden most? He really _does_ take no prisoners, vicious as any sea predator.

His eyes search your face, and you want to look away, to _get_ away, but he's got you pinned on every front, and you can't run away from him, promised you wouldn't. "…Because it's where _you_ are." And you don't mean physically, in this room, in his home—you mean it in that abstract, riddle-like way he loves to speak. Anywhere he is, that's where you want to be. You reach out for something _great_ and always find yourself touching him, linking with him, your journey leading to his and looping back around to yours in a great ring, a cycle that feeds itself. You want to be everywhere he is, and want him to be everywhere you are, at your back, at your side, or right in front of your face, in your arms, under and over you.

You want his palms flat along your shoulder blades, easing you down into a stretch you could probably handle yourself, but he's bored and already limber, and freestyle runs aren't for fifteen minutes; you want his hair tickling the exposed skin it brushes against as his head lolls to the side when he dozes against you after you catch the same train back from the beach on the heels of a weekend getaway; you want his frustratingly even, calm voice in your mind reminding you to reduce the angle of entry by five degrees, or you'll lose too much energy in the splash.

You don't say these things, not yet, because he hasn't asked for them, but it's what you mean all the same, and as he searches your eyes for the greater truth in what you've given him, he purses his lips firmly and nods, seemingly satisfied. 

He releases your hand and steps back, finally giving you breathing space, and turns back to the table, bending to pick up the pet bottle before taking a long draw from it. You watch him go and want to ask him what he thought you would say, why _he_ thought you were here, but then think better of it, because you're probably not quite ready for it, and you've played with fire and been burned enough to know you're better off waiting until you can handle the big truths. You'll swim for him, just like you promised, and he'll give you drive, just like _he_ promised. You'll feed each other, symbiotic perfection, until one of you tips the balance again. Then you'll readjust and get back in the game. 

He starts to rearrange the cups on the tray, and you watch him silently, bringing a finger up to touch your lips and trying not to remember how his felt against yours. That's one of the big truths you need to be careful about broaching, and today's not that day. But you'll still hold on to this memory, even though you should try and forget, and wrap your mind around it when you're on the starting block, muscles tense and focus razor-sharp, waiting for the whistle to launch yourself through emptiness, back into that space where you first met him, slipping through the darkness toward that distant bright, brilliant light.

He'll ask you, in your memory, if you're going to cry, and you'll finally tell him _yes_. And then you'll kiss him back.


End file.
